Simon Scarrow - The Gladiator

She met his eyes with a questioning look. He pursed his lips and shook his head. There was no chance for them now. Macro turned his horse round. There was one last course of action to be contemplated. He needed a moment to prepare himself for the deed.

'Come with me.'

'Where?'

Macro did not answer. He nodded to the man he had assigned to protect her.' Get stuck in, lad. Make every blow count.'

Then he led the way back up the ravine at a gallop, until they came to the end. There he dismounted and offered Julia his hand.

When she was down beside him, she glanced round at the high rock surrounding them.

'There's no way out.' She looked up at him, lips trembling. 'Is there?'

'No, miss.' Macro looked at her sadly.

Julia glanced back towards the ravine, as the sounds of the fighting drew closer. 'What will they do if they capture me?'

Macro knew well enough. Almost certainly there would be no mercy, and plenty of suffering before they had finished with her. 'Best not to think about that.'

'What?' She stared at him and responded plaintively:'I don't want to die. I don't want to suffer.'

'I know.' Macro put his arm round her shoulder awkwardly.

'This way'

He led her to the cliff and they turned to face the ravine. With a last savage clatter of blades and a final cry of pain the noise of the fighting died away. Then there was the sound of horses coming their way. Julia pressed into Macro.

'I'm afraid. I don't want to die.'

'Of course not, miss,' Macro replied gently. 'It's only natural.'

'And you?'

Macro smiled. 'It's been a long time coming. I've grown used to the idea. I know one thing. They're not going to forget me in a hurry.'

The first of the enemy appeared, then another, and more of thememerged from the gloom. They came on at a steady walk, weapons held ready. Some bled from wounds and all of them stared at Macro and Julia fixedly. Macro stepped in front of Julia and raised his sword.

'Come on then, you bastards! See how a Roman dies!'

There was no response, just a deathly cold in their eyes as the horsemen clopped towards them. Julia took Macro's elbow and he felt her tremble as she spoke.

'Macro, don't let them take me. Please.'

He felt an icy sense of dread clench round his heart at her words.

There was no avoiding what he must do. Macro felt sick. He swallowed back the bile and turned towards her.

'I'm so sorry, miss.'

She glanced past him to the approaching men, then grasped his shoulders and stared into his eyes.' Do it quickly!'

Macro's features twisted into an expression of agonised helplessness, then he nodded and lowered the bloodied tip of his sword to rest against her stomach, just under her rib cage. Her body was warm to the touch even though she was shivering. She clenched her eyes shut and took a last gasping breath as one of the men shouted a warning and they rushed forward.

'The gods save you, Cato my love,' she whispered. 'Macro, I'm ready. Do it.'

It was taking far too long for the force to assemble, Cato fretted irritably as he made his way along the breakwater extending from the old royal quarter into the great harbour. To his left there was a mass of commercial shipping riding at anchor waiting for a berth, and beyond lay the Heptastadion — the long causeway stretching from the mainland to the island of Pharos. As he glanced at it, Cato could not help admiring the ambition of the Alexandrines once again. The city was full of wonders, as he had discovered while waiting for Petronius to assemble the relief force to be sent to Crete.

The library had overawed him. Never before had he seen such a concentration of learning. In addition to the vast number of books on every conceivable subject, the place was filled with scholars quietly discussing shared interests, or locked in vehement dispute over some point.

He sat down on the steps of the Temple of Timon at the end of the breakwater. From there he had a good view of the fleet assembling in the royal harbour. In addition to a squadron of warships, Petronius had provided four light scouting ships of the same class that Cato and Macro had served aboard when they had been seconded to the fleet at Ravenna some years earlier. Besides these, there were eight large cargo ships to carry the horses and equipment allocated to the force. Counting the marine contingents aboard the warships, the legate had assigned nearly five thousand men to the force being sent to the aid of his old friend Senator Sempronius.

The decision of who to appoint as commander of the force had proved to be a delicate matter. In addition to the experienced officers commanding the legionary cohorts, as well as the auxiliary units, Petronius had a number of military tribunes on his staff who claimed the command for themselves. Cato had reminded the legate that Sempronius would be making his own decision with respect to appointing a commander of the relief force when it reached Crete.

Moreover, he had asked that Cato himself be the commander of the forces while they were en route to the province. In the end Petronius had appointed the senior centurion of the Twenty-Second to the post, until they arrived at Gortyna. Decius Fulvius was a scarred, bald veteran with the build of a boxer, who could bellow like a bull. Cato was impressed by his competence and aura of authority, and accepted the legate's decision.

Even though the commander had been appointed and the ships were ready, the auxiliary units were still on the march and would not reach the city for another day, Cato had been informed. The prefects, long used to the comfortable garrison duties of Egypt, had proved reluctant to be sent on campaign and had made every excuse to delay their departure, until the legate had threatened to replace them on his own authority and report the matter to the emperor. That had done the trick and the two cohorts had set off at once.

It had been several days since he had arrived in Alexandria, Cato reflected in a depressed mood as he found some shade on the steps of the temple and gazed out to sea. Some where out there lay the island of Crete, where his friends were in danger. They needed him and he was stuck here in Alexandria, dragging his heels until the relief force was ready to set sail. He thought longingly of Julia, and for a moment he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sea breeze, letting it caress his skin as she was wont to do so lightly with her fingertips that it made his body tremble at the sensation. He could not wait to be in her arms again, to hold her body against his and kiss her.

Abruptly he stopped himself pursuing that line of thought. The consequences would be embarrassing in such a public space, and the agony of her absence would only depress him further and make him more anxious over having to wait for the fleet to set sail from Alexandria. As he opened his eyes, he felt the wind strengthen, and the awning over a nearby fish stall billowed up and snapped taut. The stallkeeper was already looking anxiously to the west as he began to pack his goods away into baskets to carry back down the breakwater into the city. Cato rose from the steps and walked round to the far side of the temple. The sky beyond the Heptastadion was dark and cloudy and the swell in the harbour was more noticeable. A storm was coming, blowing in from the west.

For a moment Cato watched the horizon, won de ring if he should return to the quarters the legate had provided for him in the palace that had once been the home of the Ptolemaic pharaohs. There he would be forced to endure the empty conversation and mindless entertainments of Petronius's bored staff officers as the storm broke outside. The thought soured him, and he resolved to stay and watch.

A fresh blast of wind buffeted him and he turned to see that the storm was almost upon him. Great waves were crashing against the foot of the lighthouse across the bay and bursting in massive clouds of spray swept on by the rising wind. Out to sea, a grey curtain of rain was sweeping towards the coast beneath dark clouds that smeared the sky along the horizon.